


give me a moment; don't care if you stole it

by Lightningpelt



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (she has reservations but comes around), Alternate Universe, Anathema Device Ships Aziraphale/Crowley, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Made For Each Other, Pining, Rating May Change, Reunions, Wings, Witchcraft, Witches, finding each other, for now the M rating stays because I'm more comfortable with that, not sure yet if there'll be smut or only inferred smut BUT, see notes for full content warnings, tartan as a plot device
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 06:11:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21131972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightningpelt/pseuds/Lightningpelt
Summary: The bookshop was hidden away, sewn into the pastoral hills on the very outskirts of Tadfield. One would never know it was there, if they didn’t go intentionally searching, and that suited the old bookseller perfectly. The only frequent visitors were the local witch and witch-finder, who often borrowed books and joined the shop-owner for afternoon tea and sweets.Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, had vanished off the face of the Earth—rather, vanished somewhereonthe face of the Earth. Neither Heaven nor Hell, nor even the demon Crowley, who had known the angel in Eden, held out any hope of finding him.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So excited to be writing for this wonderful fandom! Thank you for clicking on this fic~ This is, of course, only the prologue, but I still hope it will prove enjoyable! 
> 
> This whole AU was inspired by [Bungalow by Scott Helmen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VBJOVRIC-Us) (it is, in fact, called "the Bungalow AU" in my notes), so please do give that a listen if you're so inclined!
> 
> **CWs** for self-harm behaviors (more or less short-lived, and nothing beyond temporary discorporation), questionable coping mechanisms, and alcohol abuse as a coping device. Later chapters will most likely contain NSFW, but I haven't quite gotten there yet. ♥

Angels, broadly, fall into two categories—those who have Fallen and those who have not.

Antony J. Crowley, serpent in Eden’s garden, dastardly agent of Satan Himself, was quite definitely the former. He had been tempting humans since the very beginning; he was good at his role, and enjoyed it [1]. 

The principality stationed to guard the Eastern Gate of Eden _should_ have fallen, just as definitely, into the latter category. The Almighty entrusted him with a flaming sword and said, in so many words, “Guard well my precious ones in Eden, and keep a particular eye on the apple tree at the Garden’s center” [2]. But the guardian of the Eastern Gate, the Principality Aziraphale, took these words as the command of the Almighty, just as he was expected to. 

Indeed, he should have belonged, inexorably, to the latter category—those angels who hadn’t Fallen from heaven. He was certainly no demon, and no one had seen him tumble out of the sky in a violent torrent of burning feathers. But his name was also absent from the rosters of Heaven, and whenever he was mentioned in passing the subject was rather hastily changed. 

The Principality Aziraphale, as it was, had not Fallen. But it had also been almost seven centuries since he’d checked in with Heaven; not even the Archangel Gabriel could track him down. For all intents and purposes, he had vanished off the face of the Earth—rather, vanished somewhere _on_ the face of the Earth, and neither Heaven nor Hell could pick up his trail. 

Eventually, both sides gave up. He was an embarrassment in Heaven and an unsettling unknown in Hell. 

Only the Serpent, the demon Crowley, still spoke his name; still sometimes dreamed of the angel’s blue eyes and wailed along to broken-hearted love songs in the privacy of his Bentley’s front seat. 

... ... ... 

In Tadfield village, there lived a witch and a witch-finder. 

Anathema Device had moved into Jasmine Cottage when she struck out from her family’s home. The move had somewhat perplexed her family, for she had made the decision entirely on her own. Devices simply didn’t do such things; hadn’t for centuries. Still, they were a loving, supporting bunch, and so they embraced her and wished her well. 

Newton Pulsifer, ironically, hadn’t moved to Tadfield under his own initiative. Bounced from job to job, perpetually unlucky, he’d eventually found himself recruited by one witch-finder Sergeant Shadwell. He’d been assigned Tadfield and he, a skeptical-but-dedicated witch-finder, had taken his assignment with all due seriousness. 

He’d only uncovered one witch in Tadfield—unsurprising, really, for such a small village—and he’d found himself married to her within the space of a year. Whether she’d cast a spell of love or they’d just been fated to be together, Newt really didn’t mind either way. 

... ... ... 

The bookshop was hidden away, virtually sewn into the side of a hill on the very outskirts of Tadfield. One would never know it was there, if they didn’t go intentionally searching. It was, in fact, devoid of customers, and that suited the old bookseller fine. The shop was mostly a front, anyway—a place to store his personal collection rather than sales stock. 

The witch frequented the bookshop, for it was unrivaled in its selection of occult and prophetic volumes, among more standard genres. For her, the shop acted more as a library, with its keeper lending her as many books as she liked. She was always faithful in returning them, and did him favors by way of spells and readings and cleansings. The witch-finder sometimes accompanied her, although less enamored with the collection amassed on the countless shelves. He’d given the bookseller his mother’s best cookie recipe, though, and so got to enjoy the sweet taste of home each time he visited the shop. 

There were days when it seemed, however, that no one else even knew the shop existed in the world. And if there was one being that knew of its existence the least, it was the demon Crowley. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11He enjoyed parts of it, at least, and certainly wouldn’t admit to anything else. [return to text]
> 
> 22At least, that was what the messenger angel had _said_ that the Almighty had said—it was, in reality, a bit like a divine game of telephone.[return to text]


	2. dreams of Eden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the interest! :'D Updates won't usually be this quick, but the prologue was too short to just leave by its lonesome~ 
> 
> Apologies, in advance, for this chapter. Crowley's a mess, honestly.

“House red, the bottle. Don’t bother with a glass.” 

The waitress was new, but she’d been advised by her coworkers of this man’s particular habits. He never became unruly, no matter how drunk he got, and he always tipped an almost unfathomably well. For these reasons, and a few others, the places he frequented didn’t bat an eye when he went through two bottles of wine and smattering of other drinks on any given night. 

For a demon, he was surprisingly averse to stirring up trouble, at least within his own social sphere. 

“How are you today, Mr. Crowley?” asked a senior waitress, stopping at the table after her junior had brought the second requested bottle. 

“Aah, fine—fine as I ever am, Alice,” was the reply, as the demon took a gulp of wine. He hadn’t removed his sunglasses, but then he never did. “You? How’re things with your beauuu?” 

Alice smiled, then held out her hand. Crowley’s eyebrows rose, and he took her hand with the gallant of an old-fashioned gentleman to examine the ring. 

“Oh, Alice, Alice, my congratulations,” he said, pushing his glasses up a bit as if they’d help him to see in the bar’s dim light. “You and your little girl... he’ll be good for her, yknow, I got a sense of things, and he’s... he’s a good one...” 

“Thank you, Mr. Crowley.” 

“When's... when’s the big day?” Crowley asked, letting her hand drop. His tone was soft, almost meek; a little awe-struck. “I’d never, y'know, make a nuisance of myself, I’d just like to send a gift, if you’d let me.” 

Such an offer from any other patron—any other man, really—would’ve made a sensible young woman like Alice balk. But Mr. Crowley was a respectable, kind sort of person, and so she said, “I’d never expect a thing like that, but it’ll be in about two months' time—September 6th. I’ll be off work for two weeks after, for the honeymoon.” 

“Aah, congratulations, dear,” Crowley said again, and took a deep drink of his wine. He offered her the bottle, and she declined. “A toast, then: to you and your beau, and your lil’ girly Anna. Cheers.” 

“Cheers, Mr. Crowley.” 

The demon drank deeply. 

“Aah-ah, and Alice!” Crowley called, as Alice began to walk away; she turned back. “Almost forgot, but ‘ave everyone steer clear of the M25 for a coupla days, y-yeah?” 

Alice straightened a bit; took notice, and said, “Will do, Mr. Crowley,” because Anthony Crowley’s advice, if listened to, was libel to save one’s life[3]. 

... ... ... 

Crowley had designed the M25. Not on paper, mind you. But by way of three computer hacks, selected bribery, and the harrowing effort of moving some markers across a field in the middle of the night, Crowley had _redesigned_ the M25 to suit Hellish purposes. 

Crowley knew that several supports beneath a particularly evil portion of the M25 were going to collapse within the next couple of days. He knew this not because it would be his doing—that wasn’t at all his style, much too blunt, lacked finesse, much too _fatal_—but because Ligur, in announcing his plans to Hell, had gone out of his way to thank Crowley. His redesign was, of course, the thing that made the support beams in question unstable enough to stage such a collapse. 

Crowley had stood up in the meeting, when Ligur acknowledged him, and taken his due bows. He’d sat back down feeling vaguely ill, and from more than just the noxious odors that hung around in Hell. 

The day he spoke to Alice, two days after the meeting in Hell, Crowley had gotten more thoroughly soused than even he usually deigned to, then driven home in his faithful Bentley to get _further_ soused. Sprawled out on his apartment floor, he thought of humans and their so-vaunted free will, their enviable ability to choose their own destiny. 

“We’re supposed to influence them, to _tempt_ them down, away from Grace...” he grumbled, somewhere between a bottle of whisky and a fifth of rum. His tastes had become less discerning through the millennia, and now he kept a random assortment of liquors just to add a _bit_ of variety to the routine. “We’re not meant to kill ‘em in droves, bastards!” 

The M25 redesign had been his idea. The bosses Downstairs had _loved_ it. Crowley himself had been almost sinfully proud of himself. 

“Bastard Ligur... shit bastard with his ‘oh, but killin’s fun’ argument... _bah!_ Unimaginative, un_civil_ fucker...” 

Part of Crowley knew he should sober up, sooner rather than later—he was supposed to meet with Hastur sometime that night. But a much larger part of him preferred to stay there on his living room floor, head pillowed on an empty wine bottle and eyes searching the ceiling for ineffable patterns. 

_What would you think of this, Angel...?_ Blearily, Crowley wondered why his thoughts _always_ returned to Eden, especially when he was this far gone. He neither pined for Heaven nor reveled in Hell, but he _dreamed_ of the garden as his eyes settled shut. 

... ... ... 

“Third time this month you’ve drank yourself to discorporation!” Beelzebub lectured, exasperation painted like dried gore across zir face. 

Crowley—fully sober, now, and resenting it deeply—glared mildly back. “Well isn’t that what demons _do_?” he asked. “Endorse vices, even better the ones that’ll kill y’ in the end? Drag a few people with you while you go? Drugs, booze, that whole scene?” 

“Endorse, perhaps, but not _indulge_ to _discorporation_!” Beelzebub hissed. “The _trouble_ it causes when you do this, Crowley, I must say...” 

“Just send me back and I’ll get on with it, then,” Crowley muttered. “That’s all you ever do.” 

“Not this time.” 

Crowley’s head snapped up. “What?” 

“You do fantastically _horrid_ work, Crowley...” Beelzebub leaned slightly forward, eyes narrowing. “But you’ve taken this ‘human immersion’ thing too far, too _far_. It’s the _freedom_ we’ve allowed you that’s the problem.” 

“No-no,” Crowley said hastily, standing. “No, no, no, Lord Beelzebub, it’s not a problem. Not at all. You want me to be more careful with the old flesh-and-blood? Will do! You could’ve just said so!” 

“Crowley,” Beelzebub cut in, no leniency in zir voice. Crowley wilted a bit. “You’ll be sent back to Earth—that’s where you do your best work. You’re _good_ at mingling with the... humans. But this time you’ll have an assignment, a _specific_ one, and you’ll need to show results, or we’ll pull you out entirely.” 

“Fine, fine, I’ll do whatever it is, of course, Lord Beelzebub.” Crowley gave a grandiose bow. “My honor to do the dastardly work of Hell.” 

“Come off it, Slithers,” Beelzebub waved one hand. “You’ve gotten too attached to the earth, to the _humans_. Not that that’s a problem to some extant, but it’s gotten a bit... out of hand.” 

“Lord Beelzebub...” Crowley appealed, and Beelzebub narrowed zir eyes. 

“This is the last time, Crowley. You discorporate yourself again and you’re _not_ going back.” The Lord of Flies jotted down a few things on a piece of paper; scrawled zir signature. “Tadfield. You’ll manifest back in that little apartment in London, same as usual, but then you’ll head to Tadfield. There’s a human there, a _witch_, that we’d like to... investigate. Word is she might have connections to the Opposition.” 

“Tadfield. Witch. Connections to Upstairs. Got it. Will do, Lord... Lord Beelzebub.” 

“We’ll touch base in a week or so, to see what you’ve dug up...” Beelzebub said, although ze sounded almost bored; zir eyes were on papers on zir desk, now, instead of on Crowley. Crowley felt a bit of relief, but it also scattered pinpricks of disappointment across his skin. “Go on, now. They’ll get you all fixed up with a new corporeal form.” 

“Right, then...” He turned to go; paused at the door, glancing back, almost-but-not-quite hoping for some parting barb or snide comment or order or _something_ from Beelzebub. 

The Lord of the Flies remained preoccupied with whatever paperwork littered zir rotted-wood desk. Crowley strode off, and didn’t look back again. 

... ... ... 

Newt could’ve sworn that the bookshop changed location each time they visited it. Anathema claimed that it _did_. But then, Newt reasoned, why was it always so easily found? Anathema, perhaps, could track a moving bookshop—she was a witch, after all. But on the rare occasions that Newt went there by himself, he found it just the same. So he was more inclined to blame the ever-changing countryside than believe that it actually shifted through space as if by magic. 

The bookshop looked as antique as the wares it housed; it's outer walls were cracked with age, the fractures filled in with soil and persistent plant life. The garden around it was more deliberately tended to, and the rotation of plants was such that something was (almost miraculously) in bloom at every time of year. The hills surrounding Tadfield couldn't exactly be called inhospitable, but they weren't domesticated. They belonged to nature, to the Earth alone, outside of the jurisdiction of humans and gods and devils all alike. 

It was here that the bookseller chose to live. 

Newt fidgeted, staring up at the well-worn door. He always felt inexplicably nervous upon first arrival, especially when Anathema wasn't there to hold his hand[4]. He raised a hand to knock, then took a deep breath and did so. 

The door swung inward seemingly by itself, and Newt felt a rush of relief. It was neigh impossible, he had found, to be ill-at-ease within the bookshop itself. The place seemed filled with pure _love_, and Anathema always raved about the energies it gave off. As it had opened, the door shut itself behind Newt. 

"Ah, young Pulsifer!" called out a familiar voice, and a figure appeared from behind one cluttered row of shelves. He was older, though not as ancient as would have suited his setting, perhaps in his late forties. His hair, the golden color so often lost along with early childhood, had been preened into plush curls. Soft about the middle, and with a wonderfully disarming smile that filled his round face, he seemed almost cherubic. There was something about the glint in his pale blue eyes, however, that lead one to second-guess that—the subtle guards of a well-practiced liar; the transient shadows of someone who'd seen Hell and looked carelessly away. "Welcome. What brings you here, today?" 

"G-Good afternoon, Aziraphale." The bookseller didn't seem to have a last name. He was just Aziraphale, and had been for as long as Newt and Anathema had known him. "I was just... well, Anathema was talking about a project of hers yesterday, so I thought I'd surprise her by coming down and picking up a few books on the subject." 

"Of course!" Aziraphale wiped his hands on one corner of his jacket—wiped off something sticky and most likely sweet. In all the times that Newt had been in the bookshop, and at all hours of the day and night, he'd seen Aziraphale take off his jacket perhaps twice. He'd _never_ seen the bookseller without a tartan bow-tie[5]. What was much more common was to catch him with something sweet smeared on his fingers—frosting or chocolate or custard. Newt wondered what the treat-of-the-day was. "What's the subject? I'm sure I have something she'll find interesting." 

"Angels," Newt said, and Aziraphale blinked. "It's one of her family-things," Newt continued, almost apologetic. "I don't have all the details, I'm afraid. _She_ doesn't have all the details. But there's a spell that's been passed down through the generations, in her family, that she's responsible for keeping up with, now. She thinks it has something to do with angels." 

"So it's a spell that requires upkeep?" Aziraphale asked, seeming curious. 

"About every week, she renews it," Newt replied. "Not every week, exactly, it has more to do with the moon phases... every quarter moon, so approximately every week, but not exactly." 

"Must be quite the spell, to need renewing that often." Aziraphale bustled over to one of the shelves, leafing through the volumes there. "Why's she prying into it, though? If it's a thing she's been keeping up without question until now?" 

"I think she's just curious." Newt shrugged. "I don't think the family quite knows what it is anymore, either... It's been since Agnus, that they've been keeping up this particular spell." 

"That's almost four centuries!" Aziraphale exclaimed, then huffed slightly as he stretched for a book. When he dropped back down, he opened it; flipped idly through the pages. Newt had a feeling he already knew exactly what each one said. "Quite a spell indeed." 

"One's bound to get curious about a thing like that," Newt said. 

Aziraphale made an interested hum, but didn't respond. Instead he slid a marker into the book, then set it aside to look for others. "She's not thinking of neglecting it, is she? I know she's got that rebellious streak in her—a good thing, please don't misunderstand, but I don't believe a spell of that nature would be the... aah... the type of thing to flex an act of free will on." 

Newt shook his head. "I don't think so, no. She knows its something important, and she's not the type to risk any major consequences, one way or the other. At least not without knowing what it is, at least. She trusts her family, too, at the end of the day, to know what they're doing."

Aziraphale let out a soft breath, then asked, "I've got some _delectable_ fruit tart in the kitchen, if you'd like some? I'll keep looking here, for another moment. Then I'll put on tea, if you'd like to stay a bit." 

“Of course.” Newt had expected the invitation—as content as Aziraphale appeared in his day-to-day life, he also struck Anathema and Newt as a profoundly lonely soul. They’d spoken at length about it, and agreed to never turn down his one of his invitations unless absolutely necessary. 

“Splendid!” Aziraphale’s mood seemed to lift with even the simple agreement. 

As Newt went off to retrieve two slices of the fruit tart—he knew that Aziraphale would expect one, as well—he wondered at how a man could come to exist in such total isolation. For as much as Newt believed in such things, Aziraphale struck him as a creature not-quite-human; someone who had lived innumerable lifetimes. 

_But what’s it all come to, for him...? Just this bookshop... the company of paper and ink. That’s surely... no real way to live._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 33There was a rumor, passed around the bars which he frequented, that Anthony J. Crowley was in fact a gifted prophet. Perhaps that was why he got so very drunk so terribly often: the visions he saw of what could only be demonic influences acting upon the world. [return to text]  
44In both figurative and literal senses, she always did.[return to text]  
55Aziraphale was fond of tartan—said it was "nifty". But while he employed a variety of different patterns on upholstery and dishware and other household items, he seemed to also have a personal tartan that he reserved for special uses, such as bow-ties. He'd given Anathema several gifts (a scarf, two bookmarks, a small altar-cloth) that bore that particular pattern. She'd done some research on it, briefly, to see if she could find what clan or group it might belong to, but couldn't seem to find a sample that quite matched it in all the world.[return to text]  



	3. the Witch of Tadfield

“One golden glance... of what should be! One shaft of light that shows the way!” 

Crowley’s singing voice left a lot to be desired. But that didn’t matter within the confines of the Bentley, and he sang as loudly as he pleased. 

“The bell that rings inside your mind, it’s a challenging the doors of time...!!” 

He and Freddie Mercury had been friends—real friends, something Crowley had virtually no other experience with. Freddie Mercury had seen his eyes; hadn’t even raised an eyebrow. They’d drank together, though they’d also shared reverent, almost-sober moments of silence. 

Crowley had kissed him, once, and immediately apologized. Freddie had held him while he sobbed. 

_“Tell me about him, Love. About your angel.”_

Crowley had; he’d spoken about Aziraphale like a past lover, the one who’d gotten away, though they’d never been even close to that. Freddie had listened and, weeks later, played Crowley the first, acoustic version of _Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy_, sitting on the floor of Crowley’s rented flat. 

_“It’s for your and your angel,” he said, when Crowley only stared in astonishment. “And for the love story you should’ve had. You still love him, after all. So take a bit of time to appreciate the fact that you’re still in love, and that’s a really beautiful thing.”_

Driving to Tadfield, nursing a bottle of Merlot stowed beneath his seat, Crowley sang along to _Save Me_, to _You’re My Best Friend_, to _Somebody to Love_, to _I Want it All_, to _Bohemian Rhapsody_, to _Heaven for Everyone_, to _Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy_—to all of them. Freddie had never minded his less-than-angelic singing voice. 

When Freddie Mercury had died, few had mourned as passionately as the demon Crowley. 

“Ohh, you’re my best friend!!” 

Tadfield was, as his brief research had promised, a picturesque little hideaway in the countryside. It would be an idyllic place to spend childhood, and similarly to retire—Crowley wondered, briefly, what it would be like to have such a future to consider. He quieted the Bentley’s proud engine and turned down the stereo with one gentle sweep of a hand, disinclined to attract attention to himself. 

_Witch, witch, witch..._ Gazing around the street, he wondered if it wouldn’t be nice to spend a few years here even after he fulfilled his assignment. _Somewhere slower... quiet... not like London, so noisy and crowded... I’d still have to send a gift over, for Alice’s wedding... but it’s not like I have any other commitments in the city..._

“Yeah, I was wondering if you could direct me to...” he consulted the slip of paper that he’d received, “Jasmine Cottage? I’ve got business with the, eh... lady of the house.” 

The man he’d pulled up beside—elderly, with an authoritative-looking dachshund padding at his side—gave him a look up and down. Then, miraculously deciding that Crowley didn’t appear to be the type to start trouble or be up to no good, he raised a hand to point. 

“Head up this road, take a left. The road’ll curve around up that hill there, and then y’ can’t miss it. Ms. Device keeps the most marvelous garden. Beautiful calendula, simply _beautiful_.” 

“Got it. Thanks.” Crowley raised a hand, then drove off. _Calendula..._ he thought, and scoffed. _Figures._

Crowley considered, briefly, putting off the whole witch business until the next day; he could find his own rented accommodations first, perhaps aquatint himself with the nearest bar, rest a bit. But his body didn’t require sleep or sustenance, not in earnest, and so he decided there was no need. He drove slowly up the winding road, taking time to appreciate the old growth trees and lush foliage. Queen still hummed, low, through the speakers—_Play the Game_. 

When he came into view of the cottage, Crowley let out a low whistle. The old man hadn’t lied about the witch’s garden: it was like Eden reborn. Nostalgia pattered like raindrops against his skin, and he swallowed hard as he edged the Bentley up along the curb. 

“Oh Hell...” he muttered, taking in the horseshoe above the doorway. He wasn’t surprised that she’d taken such precautions, but he was... mildly put out. It was likely that the inside of the cottage was even more aggressively protected. _She’s probably got wards set up that’ll warn her the second I get too close, anyway..._

“Hello?” 

Crowley jumped; hissed when he smacked his hand on the underside of the steering wheel. The man peering in his open passenger side window didn’t seem hostile, though, only curious. 

“Can I help you?” the man asked, with the earnest tone of a born sucker. “A bit lost?” 

“Aah, well...” Crowley scrambled for a story, then stalled for time by turning the car off and stepping out with whatever dignity he could manage. He moved around the hood to meet the man, although was slightly taken-aback to see the books he carried under one arm. They were well-aged, antique, an aesthetic that his angel would’ve appreciated. Crowley gave himself a shake, scattering those troublesome thoughts. “I’m looking for a Ms. Device. I was told she might live here?” 

The young man blinked limpid, accommodating eyes. “Anathema? Yes! Yes, we live here, she and I. Do you... Why are you looking for her?” 

“Well, I seem to have run into a bit of trouble with a curse.” Crowley gave his best winning smile. That sounded... _good_. It would explain any demonic energy she detected, and it might garner him a bit of sympathy in the bargain. “I hear she’s the person to see, about such things.” 

The young man brightened. “Oh, she’s—yes, she’d brilliant with that sort of thing! Come in, then. I think she’s still out, but you can wait indoors with me. I was just coming back from picking up some books for her, from a friend. He also sent me off with this sinful fruit tart, and I’ll just _die_ if I try to eat by myself, anyway. I’ll put on tea!” 

Crowley found himself equal parts bemused and annoyed. This young man was too honest, too nice—too _human_. Crowley felt his lip begin to curl, but stopped it; swallowed against the reaction, and tasted stale wine on his tongue. 

“That would be... sssplendid.” 

“I’m Newton, Newton Pulsifer. Newt’s fine, if you want.” Newt shifted the books and the pastry tin in order to offer his hand, and Crowley deigned to take it—for appearance’s sake. 

“Anthony Crowley. At your ssservice.” Crowley followed Newt through the garden and up to the door. He braced, but didn’t dare let himself look up at the horseshoe as he passed beneath it. It didn’t burn quite as intensely as he would’ve anticipated. 

“Mr. Crowley, make yourself at home! So sorry for the mess...” Newt dumped his books on the cluttered kitchen table; hurried to put a kettle on. Crowley eased into one of the chairs, crossing his legs. “This curse—do you mind me asking what it’s all about?” 

“I’d prefer to save those gory details for Ms. Device.” 

“Of course.” Newt unwrapped a the tin, revealing a decadent fruit tart. “Want a slice?” 

Crowley shook his head. “Aah, not really one for sweets, me.” His angel, though, would go a bit mad with desire over such a tart. He’d always been sinfully fond of fresh fruit and sweets. 

While Newt chatted about idle things—the weather in Tadfield, his dreams of starting a tech support company, things like that—Crowley miracled a bit of rum into the steaming cup of black tea that was placed in front of him. 

_”There’s a human there, a witch, that we’d like to... investigate. Word is she might have connections to the Opposition.”_ Connections to the Opposition were not a thing to be taken likely. The smooth, earthy-brown-sugar notes of the rum turned bitter in his mouth, and he coughed slightly. Newt offered him water, and he declined. _If she _is_ at all connected to Upstairs... I’m here to “investigate” for now, but if she turns out to be... then the next order will be..._

A practicing witch was one thing. She could certainly count as an enemy operative. But this young man, Newton Pulsifer, was only human—a pleasant, slightly gullible human, no less. If Anathema Device were to burn, he would certainly suffer just as much as the witch herself. 

_Oh Satan, let his be a wild goose chase..._ Crowley thought, and wished for it furtively. _Let her be on neutral standing. A human witch for humans and humans alone, not Heaven or Hell._

As Newt launched into some fond story about Tadfield’s steadfast neighborhood watchman, Crowley’s attention drifted again to the small stack of books. They smelled just faintly of dust, but it was clear they’d been taken care of throughout the years. Crowley felt a deep ache appear in his chest, for his angel would have been so fond of such old books. On an impulse, Crowley reached over to look at the topmost volume. 

His throat closed up, eyes widening sharply behind his sunglasses. In the hallway of the cottage, an antique bell began to ring. 

“That’s odd...” Newt said, turning to look. “That’s... supposed to detect...” 

Crowley’s nails—lengthened, now, sharp—dig into the cover of the book. _Seraphim and the Oracles_, read the cover, and Crowley despaired. _He did say... they were for her... for Anathema Device, the witch..._

The door banged open, and Newt called out, “Anathema?” 

The woman who came swishing into the room was wild-eyed, long skirt swirling around her ankles and small fists ballad at her sides. Her hair was braided, but a few locks had come free in an apparently frantic dash. 

“Newt! Exactly what have you allowed into our _home_?!” 

Crowley stood slowly, placing the book down and raising his hands in a casual show of benevolence. 

“Oh! This fellow, he says he’s been cursed! So he’s come along to you, Love,” Newt explained. “Says his name’s Antony Crowley.” 

“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Device,” Crowley said, and bowed deeply. “Your reputation doesss proceed you.” 

Anathema, catching her breath, calmed slightly; her shoulders sank into a more relaxed posture. “Cursed...?” she echoed, and then circled him like a wary cat. Crowley tolerated the inspection. “That would... explain a thing or two...” 

“Might you be able to assist me, oh Esteemed Daughter of the Moon?” Crowley asked, infusing his voice with all his practiced charm. The bell in the hallway began, again, to ring. 

Anathema’s eyes narrowed, and she took a hasty step back from him. She glanced at Newt, then said stiffly, “If it’s a curse, it’s an ancient one. And potent.” 

Crowley couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m well aware of _that_[6].” 

Anathema seemed to consider that, then gave a short nod. “Come back tomorrow, then. Noon. I need time to prepare. For now...” she drew a shuddering breath, “I need to ask you to get _out_ of our house.” 

Crowley nodded dutifully, then backed from the room, hands spread in an attempt at joviality. “Tomorrow, then. May the fortunes of the universe be with you until then, Ms. Device. Thank you for the hospitality, Newton.” 

“Out!” Anathema snapped, and Crowley bowed once more; slithered out the door. Only then did Anathema let out a heavy breath, then slumped down into one of the kitchen chairs. 

“What was _that_?!” Newt exclaimed, and Anathema shook her head slowly. 

“If he is human, I’ve never seen a more pitiable creature, so bound by grief and misfortune and hellish aura. But I’d bet my most reliable pendulum that you just invited a demon in to sit at our kitchen table.” 

Newton’s jaw went limp. “A... A _demon_?”

... ... ... 

Crowley scuttled out to his Bentley, feeling the Banishing Intent radiating from the cottage. Every Hellish instinct he possessed screeched at him to speed away and never look back.

He hadn’t just found a witch, but some sort of High Priestess in league with angels. 

Still, she’d let him go. As Crowley started up the Bentley with a thought, he considered that. She’d clearly identified him, and yet hadn’t acted. She’d stepped in as if to protect her human companion, but she’d stopped short of casting anything purifying. 

The Bentley’s stereo buzzed. 

“Crowley!” It was Hastor’s reedy rasp of a voice. “How goes it? Did you find the witch?” 

“Aah... yeah, the witch... I found her, alright.” Crowley scrabbled under his seat, the Beverly swerving dangerously as he did so, and cursed when the bottle escaped his clawing fingers. 

“Well? Is she workin’ for Upstairs?”

Crowley hissed in irritation, giving up on the wine. He considered the books; wondered if he could call them proof. But whether she was actually working for the Opposition or not was just slightly beside the point, after all. The thought of reporting anything other than what Beelzebub wanted to hear left Crowley feeling shaky and ill. 

_The sooner I wrap up this business here in Tadfield..._

“She’s definitely on Heavenly payroll. No doubt. Not sure exactly what they’ve got her doing, but she’s working for them. She’s one powerful human, too—yknow, _for_ a human.” 

“Excellent...” Hastor chortled. “Lord Beelzebub will be most pleased. Now, step two is, of course, to eliminate her. You can handle that, can’t you?” 

Crowley cleared his throat. “‘Course I can... What’d you take me for?” 

“Excellent. Report back tomorrow, then, when the deed is done.” 

“And then I can go back to London, right? Or leave Tadfield, at least?” 

“That’s up to Beelzebub.” Hastor made a disgusting sound in the back of his throat, a gargling of mucus and black sludge, and Crowley cringed. “They’re not happy with how you’ve been burning through vessels, lately. If it was a wager, I’d say they’ll keep you on a leash for a while longer.” 

Crowley groaned. “I said I’d be careful with the stupid corporeal—gaah!” He jerked the steering wheel, swerving to avoid an oncoming car. “Fuck!” 

Hastor cackled through the stereo, but then faded out; within moments, Crowley was alone again. He tightened his grip on the wheel until it creaked. 

“Oh for _Hell's_ sake!” he shouted, then bent his head. _Why can’t they just leave me... leave me _alone_..._

_My angel already did, after all... I may as well just... be..._

Crowley never did find the place he was supposed to be lodging. For the duration of the long, moonless night, he coasted the deserted countryside roads instead, headlights off, Bentley made all-but-invisible by a minor miracle. Freddie Mercury’s voice kept him company, and he crooned along beneath his breath between sips of wine.

... ... ... 

The bookseller startled from sleep, sitting up in his well-worn armchair and leaving behind a spot of drool on its headrest. He looked around, wondering what noise had woken him.

The bookshop was silent; still, and empty besides it’s owner. Aziraphale carefully closed the book that had been forgotten on his lap, then stood. 

_That presence..._

He had detected it earlier in the day, and now it flickered at the edges of his senses once again. It felt faintly familiar, but Aziraphale couldn’t imagine why. Still, the unearthly nature of the presence unsettled him deeply. In accordance with its owner’s unease, the bookshop grew saturated with shadows; dissolved into the hills themselves. For all intents and purposes, it vanished from the world, concealed from eyes mortal or otherwise. 

Within, Aziraphale fixed himself a warm supper and a glass of chilled wine, then settled in, secure in the knowledge that he could not be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 66There was no lie in it. His so-called "curse" was ancient, and potent. And, had there been a witch who could cure him of it, he would've gone to the ends of the earth to find her.[return to text]


	4. the Bookshop in the hills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... it's be-mean-to-Crowley-hour and I'm sorry

“You’re really going to exorcise the fellow?” Newt asked, sounding mildly concerned. 

Anathema, scrutinizing the various tools spread out on their kitchen table, nodded. “If he’s a demon.” 

“You seemed... pretty sure about that one.” 

Again she nodded. “I am. But...” she let out a soft sigh. “I _know_ that’s what he appears to be, but there’s always the chance I’m wrong. It could be... some byproduct of whatever curse he’s under. I don’t know. I’ve never actually encountered a demon before.” 

“He didn’t seem very... demonic,” Newt offered. “He complimented your garden.” 

“His aura was so... _sad_,” Anathema said, perturbed. “Like he carried his own deathbed around on his back.” 

“He did say he was cursed.” 

“He _is_ cursed, one way of the other, no doubt about that.” Anathema stood; cleared away some of the clutter. “Well, if he’s not a demon, these things won’t harm him. If he’s just a man with a curse, it’ll actually help him. But if he is demonic in nature, hell-spawn in mortal guise, then my work will end him.” 

“Why do you think a demon would seek you out?” Newt asked quietly. 

“If he’s lying about wanting help for a curse, then it’s nothing good.” Anathema moved the stack of Aziraphale’s books carefully to one of the higher spice shelves; it wouldn’t do to return them spattered with demon-blood.

... ... ... 

Crowley was having a rather difficult time. He’d parked the Bentley a few streets away from Jasmine Cottage, and had found himself seriously weighing his options. There weren’t that many, all things considered.

_If I do this, I can go back to how things were._ No matter how many times he repeated that, it rang hollow. It wasn’t the killing he was getting stuck on—though it wasn’t his first choice, it wasn’t an insurmountable thing—but instead the _frivolity_ of it. This wasn’t about influencing humans to the shadows or winning souls for Satan. This was about knocking off a _human witch_ for whatever services she was providing for the opposition. 

Crowley wasn’t oblivious enough to believe it was anything but a fool’s errand—a test, to see if he would play obedient through to the end. 

“I haven’t given you any reason to doubt my loyalty...” he muttered. “My motivation, sure, but that’s not... for _Hell's_ sake...” 

He was a demon—not a nice creature, not at all, so he insisted to himself that the fates of the witch and her companion weren’t contributing at all to his hesitation. He pretended it was merely irritation on his own behalf. 

In the end, though, Crowley was a demon, and so he resolved to do what he’d been commanded by Hell’s higher-ups. He nudged the Bentley up alongside Anathema’s lush garden, then got out; meshed his fingers and stretched them outward until each one cracked. 

“Let’s get to it, then...” he murmured, patting the Bentley’s roof as he strode toward the house. The horseshoe somehow seemed more malevolent, this time, and his hand stung when he knocked. 

“Ah! Mr. Crowley!” It was the young man who answered the door, and he looked unsettled. Crowley gave him a charismatic smile. “Yes, come right on in, please.” 

“A pleasssure.” Crowley cringed as he passed the threshold, and his skin prickled with a vague sense of danger. _She’s prepared something, then... something to fix my ‘curse,’ presumably, but something that will..._

“Welcome—Anthony, was it?” 

Crowley bowed to the young woman seated at the table. She looked the part, clad in a flowing grey gown and sporting ancient ruins of protection around her wrists. A deck of cards sat before her, surrounded by parcels of herbs and a variety of candles and crystals. 

“You do look _bewitching_, simply _spell-binding_, if I may say so.” 

Newton almost laughed, but it came out a stifled little snort. Anathema almost glared over at him, but managed to keep her eyes fixed on Crowley even as her head gave a cross jerk in Newt’s direction. 

“Be seated, ye who seek freedom from your cursed shackles.” 

“Ah, really goin’ all-in with the character, eh?” 

Anathema narrowed her eyes. “Just sit down,” she hissed, and Crowley lowered himself into the chair across from hers. He forced himself to not think about what he planned to do; while true telepathy was beyond humans, she’d sense his killing intent for sure. 

“You are indeed a _damned_ individual, Mr. Crowley.” Anathema swept a hand over her deck of cards, fanning them out. “You’ve come to me for help with a curse, but I don’t think you’ve been honest about the nature of your... affliction.” 

_You couldn’t help me, even if I was._ Crowley swallowed a bitter smile. “Let’s get on with it, eeh?” 

Anathema’s expression hardened, but she nodded. “Very well. Then please take a card.” 

Newton Pulsifer knew that Anathema had never, not once in her life, asked a client to “pick a card, any card.” The hair along his spine prickled; he was rendered, for a moment, a simple beast shrinking before two higher powers. 

Crowley’s eyes remained fixed on Anathema’s; deliberately, he extended his hand, and placed his index finger on one card. 

A small cross flashed from beneath the table, and there was a splash of scarlet as Anathema drove it through Crowley’s hand. It’s blunt end wouldn’t have pierced a human hand—bruised it, perhaps—but the blessed object sliced into the demon’s flesh as surely as a butcher knife. Crowley hissed, grabbing for his wrist with his free hand. 

“A little old blesssing like this won’t get rid of my curssse...” He smirked, despite the edge of pain in his voice and the twist of it about his face. “Believe it’s a bit more... puissssssant than that...” 

Anathema stood slowly. “If ye be a demon, be gone. If ye be but a man, forgive me.” 

“Sorry, won’t be doing _either_...” Crowley hissed, and called up a crackling hellfire that rippled up his uninjured arm. 

Anathema, though her hair billowed in the scorched air that accosted around her, stood steadfast. She raised her hand, and Crowley’s eyes, still hidden by glasses, flew wide. 

“Blessed be, Demon!” 

Crowley wrenched his hand off the table, throwing up both his arms just in time to catch the shower of droplets. The hellfire extinguished in a burst of hissing steam that filled the kitchen, and Crowley’s voice rose in an anguished scream. Blind with pain and confusion, he ran; blundered into Newt, who gave a startled shout. Crowley recoiled, his voice going hoarse, and threw himself backwards; collided with the table and staggered, then lurched into the hallway and made it out the door. He couldn’t see clearly, to tell he’d made it outside, but the rush of open air gave him the indication. Calling out to the Bentley, mentally, he struggled through a row of plants and crashed into the sleek side of his beloved car. 

“Sweety, beauty, my _gorgeous_ car, help, help, please help me, take me _away_...!” he gasped out, and then tumbled into the front seat. He was faintly aware of Anathema shouting as she gave chase, but then the Bentley’s door shut and they were moving.

Crowley wailed, grasping at his searing arms; clawing at the spots where skin and muscle were peeling away to reveal bone. He’d lost his sunglasses somewhere in his blind rush, but his vision remained dark and clouded. He wondered, even as the hot tears began to streak down his face, if any of the holy water had gotten into his eyes; wondered if the damage was permanent. The temptation to discorporate, to just ditch this _dumpster fire_ of a vessel was maddening, but Lord Beelzebub’s warning echoed in his aching head. 

_“This is the last time, Crowley. You discorperate yourself again and you’re _not_ going back.”_

“Heaven bless it!!” Crowley shrieked, and then the Bentley pitched forward; struck some unseen obstacle and flipped forward. Even under miraculous circumstances, a car was only capable of making it so far on its own, after all. Crowley folded his arms up around his head, instinctively, enveloping himself in the scent of burning flesh. His hunched back struck the roof of the car and he coughed blood, wings sizzling into being and then immediately dissolving again as the Bentley came to an uneasy, overturned rest.

... ... ... 

Though Anathema had followed the demon, Anthony Crowley, to her front door, she only stood watching as he blundered through her lavender bushes; watched as he scrambled into his antique car, and as the vehicle seemed to drive itself away. The scene left her shaky, and unsure why her gut twisted with unknown emotions.

“Anathema!” Newt joined her with a concerned shout of her name, then stalled when he reached her side. “Anathema?” 

“What just...?” she breathed, and then blinked; watched the old Bentley vanish over the ridge. “The hills... he’s headed for...” 

“The bookshop!” Newt shouted, and then darted out past her towards his car. “C’mon!”

... ... ... 

_She’ll come after me... the witch...!_ Crowley struggled free of the Bentley’s front seat, for the moment unconcerned with the twisted metal and faint scent of scorched rubber. He blinked, frantically trying to clear his vision. The tears had helped—had washed away the micro-droplets of blessed matter that had reached his eyes—but his sight remained hazy. He stumbled; fell, and then scrambled into a woodsy bit of undergrowth. Pushing through it, he glimpsed a structure—a shopfront.

_A shop... all the way out here...?!_ Like a mirage, the building wavered and threatened to disappear before him. Desperate, Crowley lunged; the shop promised sanctuary in the way that a psychedelic trip offered transcendence. Hand—bloodied, burned, tattered hand leaking fluids and shedding skin—found purchase on the doorknob, and Crowley wrenched it open. 

The shop-owner looked up where he stood, startled, blue eyes bright with surprise. His book snapped shut. 

Crowley’s mouth opened, and he gasped in a breath. It didn’t seem to yield a single atom of oxygen. 

“Angel...” 

The man took a step forward; said, faintly, “Oh... oh my, I... I’m sorry...” 

“Angel!” Crowley said again, more certainly this time; brokenly, triumphantly. Fresh tears rolled down his soiled face. “Aziraphale...!” 

“I’m... I-I’m sorry, but...” Aziraphale’s face creased; he stared, grasping at a memory almost forgotten. 

“The garden...” Crowley breathed, then: “The garden! It’s Crowley, from Eden! Well, Crawley, then, but—“ 

“Ah!” Aziraphale exclaimed, seeming to glow with sudden recognition. “The _garden_...! I haven’t thought about that in... Right, yes, wouldn’t it be funny if I did the wrong thing and—" __

_ _“—and I did the right thing!” Crowley cried with him, voice cracking. “Yes!” _ _

_ _“Oh—oh Craw—_Crowley_!” Aziraphale said, warmth overflowing his voice and spilling out as he opened his arms. “Oh... oh I _have_ missed you!” ___ _

_ _ _ _And Crowley slumped. The last thing his failing eyes saw was an angel, _his long-lost angel_, rushing forward to catch him. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ __ _ _ _

... ... ... 

The bookshop proved a bit harder to find than usual, but once they’d found the Bentley, overturned and smoking, it was right around the next bend.

Anathema bounded out of the car, dress swirling about her as she ran. Newt, on her heels, clutched the mason jar of holy water to his chest. 

“Aziraphale!” Anathema shouted, barging through the door. “Aziraphale, are you—?!” 

“What? What is it?” Newt gasped, catching up as Anathema fell abruptly silent. He followed her gaze, then, and gaped. 

Aziraphale sat, calm as he’d ever been in his life, with one finger to his lips and a paperback propped open in his other hand. On his lap lay a curled serpent, at least ten feet of glistening black scales, it’s head pillowed on Aziraphale’s stomach and it’s tail trailing on the ground at his feet. 

“Shhh...” Aziraphale pointed downwards. “Let’s not wake him again, just yet. Seems he’s in quite a state, the poor fellow. We’ll let him rest, a moment. Needs it quite badly, I’d say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So very excited to see the boys reunited, and can't wait to share the upcoming chapters~ Comments and kudos so very much appreciated, and thank you for reading! ;w;


	5. the Angel's spell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not dead! Bless anyone who's still here, and I hope you enjoy the next chapter~

Crowley’s head didn’t merely swim, it _floundered_, worn down by stress and loneliness and fatigue and that truly _awful_ witch with her holy water. But, mysteriously, he was _warm_. His head, and his whole body, really, rested against something wonderfully plush, and the cold-blooded chill that so suited a serpent had been chased away by someone else’s body heat. 

_Body heat...?_

He could feel a heartbeat that wasn’t his. 

Shaking himself awake with an effort, Crowley blinked his eyes open. The face smiling down at him was one he’d recognize anywhere, though he’d resigned himself to never seeing it again. Crowley smiled. 

“Angel...” 

“Good morning, dear one,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley slowly realized that he was coiled—human, now, but still snakelike—on Aziraphale’s lap. Feeling heat rush into his face, he slithered off and onto the floor; his legs, still feeling too shaky to support him, folded on either side of him. 

“Aziraphale...” Like a prayer, the name left Crowley’s lips. “But... but how...?” 

Aziraphale sighed, then said, instead of replying, “I am glad you’re the one who found me,” and got up with a slight huff. “Coffee? You strike me as that sort, isn’t that right?” 

Crowley nodded vaguely; caffeine might help, he thought. While Aziraphale was out of sight, he turned to his arms to assess the damage that had been done. His skin was still visibly festering, blisters forming and then melting as he watched. They hurt, but not unmanageably, now—he figured the nerves must’ve burned away to some extent. _At least I can’t see any bones, anymore..._ he thought, and rubbed briskly at one of his forearms. The skin flaked off in great chunks and he recoiled, irritably wondering what he’d _expected_ to happen. 

“Don’t aggravate those too much,” came Aziraphale’s voice, gently chiding. He crouched, then sat down beside Crowley, two mugs in hand. Instinctively the demon shied away, but then forced himself not to shrink. Aziraphale set the cups aside; reached out. “Let me see.” 

“You’ll do more damage...” Crowley muttered, but yielded one of his arms anyway. Aziraphale’s soft touch sent pleasure—confusion, too, but decided pleasure—pulsing through his flesh. 

“Oh dear...” Aziraphale breathed. “That Anathema... you’re lucky this is _human-made_ holy water, not The Holiest.” 

“Wait, you know the witch?” Crowley asked, thinking he should sound accusatory but lacking the proper motivation. 

“Oh yes...” Aziraphale said, in another sigh. “She and dear Newton came rushing after you, of course. Afraid you might come upon me, I suppose. I sent them away. Though they’ll be back sooner or later, I expect.” 

“...” Crowley felt his face contort; was powerless to hide his apprehension and desperation when he thought of the witch. Aziraphale was good enough to neither question nor comment. 

“Let’s see about this, now...” Aziraphale mumbled, then raised Crowley’s arm close to his face. He whispered something suspiciously like a prayer against the traumatized flesh and Crowley winced, waiting for the agony to flare up all over again. But it didn’t; Aziraphale’s words, whatever they had been, soothed instead. An involuntary shudder passed through Crowley as the pain eased. 

“An angel’s blessing... should _burn_...” he breathed, and Aziraphale offered a sly upward glance; a wry smile, lips brushing the healed-over skin. 

“I haven’t been that sanctified in a long time, my dear.” 

Crowley’s breath caught. “Are you...?” 

“Not Fallen,” Aziraphale said, and then flipped Crowley’s arm over; repeated his administrations on the other side. “If I was, my touch would be as useless as yours, on wounds like these. But not exactly... well, I’m not sure. Just not _quite_ as holy, I suppose. I can perform miracles, just the same... I can, oh, _fly_, you know... but it’s not...” He trailed off; set down Crowley’s arm and picked up his mug. He took a sip of the rich hot chocolate and, seemingly without thinking, topped it with toasted marshmallows with a wave of his hand. He took another drink, then turned his attention to Crowley’s other arm. 

“Where have you _been_?” Crowley asked, urgency seeping through his tone like the blood from his wounds. “You disappeared, Angel, so long ago!” 

Aziraphale didn’t reply, not while he tended to the holy water’s damage. Despite how the unanswered questions made his skin _crawl_, Crowley didn’t demand anything of him. Once the worst of the wounds had vanished, Aziraphale scooted back a bit. He offered Crowley the coffee which was, miraculously, still piping hot. 

“I... didn’t want to go back,” Aziraphale said eventually; softly. “To Heaven. Gabriel came to fetch me, and I...” 

“1300s?” Crowley asked, in an impulsive rush. “That’s when I lost—" and he stalled, realizing he’d given away more than he’d intended. 

Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow, but there was no discernible judgment in his voice when he guessed, “Lost... track of me?” 

Crowley avoided looking up, his face hot with very _human_ embarrassment. He nodded. 

“I could sense you, too,” Aziraphale said. “But I figured that was always by coincidence. Our two sides sending us to run errands in the same general area. Good balancing out evil, and visa-versa.” 

“Yeah, that was it... kind of...” Crowley muttered. 

Aziraphale considered him for a moment, then let the subject pass them by. “I have only good memories of time spent with you, in the Garden.” When Crowley looked up in surprise, Aziraphale granted him a glowing smile. “I’ve often thought of how wonderful it would be to see you again.” 

“Angel, you...” Crowley ran short of breath, and of words besides. Aziraphale reached out; placed a hand—soft but steady, unassuming—against Crowley’s cheek. Crowley felt himself stiffen, uncertain of the last time anyone had _touched_ him—not since Freddie, in all likelihood. Aziraphale leaned in; pressed warm, plush lips against Crowley’s mouth. 

The contact was kept brief and chaste. When Aziraphale drew back, though, there was something decidedly devilish in his eyes. 

“I’ve wondered about that, too,” he said, and Crowley tried to find the words to convey _some_ of what he was feeling—all of it would’ve been a sheer impossibility. 

“How... What do you think, about it? Now?” he asked at last, sounding dumbstruck even to his own ears. 

Aziraphale’s lips curled upwards. “Quite pleasant.” And, giving Crowley only that to go on, he stood and brushed himself off; carried on, conversationally, “I’ll fix us something to eat. I told Anathema to wait a few days before coming back, but something tells me she’ll be by tonight or first thing in the morning.” 

“I can’t...” Crowley began, and Aziraphale glanced over questioningly. For the sake of honesty, he said, “I, I, I may have been... _asked_, by Hell, to... to kill her.” 

Aziraphale didn’t seem surprised. “Pity. But you won’t, will you? As a favor to me, if nothing else?” 

“I won’t.” Crowley wasn’t sure why he didn’t hesitate, but he meant it. “If you ask.” 

“Consider it officially asked, then,” Aziraphale said. “For my sake.” 

He vanished around a corner, then, and Crowley stared after him. A few moments passed, but eventually the demon got to his feet; trudged after the angel, for sheer lack of anything else to do. 

Aziraphale had gone to a little kitchenette, tucked away at the back of the shop. Like some strange fairy tale, food was preparing itself under his watchful gaze—a roast cooking itself with unlikely speed right there on the countertop; cake batter mixing itself beside the frosting being whipped into proper consistency by an unmanned whisk. Aziraphale himself was half-hidden inside the refrigerator, and when he emerged he had a bottle of Chardonnay in hand. 

“More of a red fellow, I’d guess?” he asked, and passed a hand over the label; it changed into a vintage Merlot, and he seemed more satisfied. “It’ll go better with the roast, anyhow.” 

“We... don’t _need_ to eat...” Crowley said at last, feeling obligated to at least point that out. 

Aziraphale chuckled. “Yes, but it makes for quite a lovely pass-time. And you’ll feel better, I promise—something about these bodies, necessities be damned. Have just a bit, then, for me.” 

Crowley had a feeling that Aziraphale had already realized tacking “for me” onto any request in the world would guarantee his compliance. He definitely wasn’t incorrect, and Crowley felt himself nod. 

“Good.” Aziraphale moved to fix up the small kitchen table, relocating stacks of books and setting a second place. 

“How long...?” Crowley began to ask, and then amended his question. “You’ve been here the entire time? Here in Tadfield?” 

“Only here in Tadfield for about... oh, a decade now? A bit less, perhaps...” Aziraphale ran a finger through the frosting and tasted it, eyes closing briefly in something like revelry. Crowley’s mouth went a bit dry, watching. “Other places, before that. The bookshop travels with me, though. So I suppose I have been hiding out _here_, in the shop, for quite a while.” 

“How?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale sighed. 

“In a _moment_, dear boy. Over supper. Alright?” 

Crowley let out a breath between his teeth, frustrated; nodded, though, and didn’t speak again as Aziraphale finished his preparations. The table, once set, seemed very homely—very human. Crowley frowned slightly, but obeyed when Aziraphale motioned him to sit. 

Although Crowley had intended to start in again as soon as they were eating, he was distracted by way Aziraphale _melted_ with divine pleasure upon the first bite of his meal. He gave a soft, indulgent moan that sent shivers up Crowley’s spine, and the demon forced himself to look down at his plate to avoid staring. He tried to remember the last time he’d eaten in earnest. He would sometimes pick at eggs or pastry with his morning coffee, and the waitresses at his usual haunts would sometimes bring over food unprompted, seeming concerned for him, so he would nibble to placate them. But he couldn’t recall the last time he’d had anything that could be called a meal. 

The roast had been cooked (prepared, rather, miraculously) with beef broth and red wine, and had the texture of choice meat cooked for hours to perfect tenderness. It flaked off on his fork, the iron-rich scent of it making his head spin and mouth flood with saliva. When he placed it on his tongue, lips closing around the utensil, he nearly lost track of himself; nearly made an indecent sound. As it was, he swallowed a bit hastily, trying not to drool. 

“Quite marvelous, isn’t it?” Aziraphale asked, taking a bite of his own. “Took me a few decades to get this recipe exactly right.” 

It was, indeed, _marvelous_, and Crowley wondered why he had the sudden impulse to sob there at the angel’s kitchen table. But he wasn’t in such a desperate state as he had been, when he’d first stumbled into the bookshop, and so he didn’t cry. He ate a few more hasty bites of the roast, savoring the robust, complex flavors and letting himself get entirely consumed by the sensation of food in his mouth and sliding down his throat and settling in his stomach. He felt warm, and his body—which he’d always regarded as nothing more than a borrowed, utilitarian thing made of perishable organic tissue—felt decidedly more real; decidedly more _his_. He was certain that some small moan did escape at some point, but Aziraphale didn’t make comment. 

After a few minutes, he felt satisfied, full, and sat back from the table. He was free, then, to watch as Aziraphale ate—a rapturous sight. His questions suddenly seemed far less important; their answers could all wait. The world fell away and there was only the angel, _his_ angel, taking almost obscene pleasure in this very human activity of dining. Crowley sipped his wine, one absentminded hand resting on his own stomach, thinking he could watch such marvels forever and be satisfied. 

"Scrumptious!" Aziraphale exclaimed, upon cleaning his plate. He rose, then, and fetched them both a slice of the cake; Crowley almost objected, having no desire for the sweet, but found he couldn't suffer the prospect of the angel's disappointment. Aziraphale had, after all, cut him a considerately small piece as it was. The angel settled back in; took a bite, eyes closing in bliss, and then mumbled, "Now, my dear, go on. Ask your questions, and I'll answer them as best I can." 

Crowley blinked, surprised that Aziraphale would start the conversation. But he nodded, licking a bit of buttercream from the tip of his fork. "Ah... right, well... How's it possible? That Heaven and Hell can't find you? That _I_ couldn't?" 

Aziraphale nodded slowly; took another bite of cake, and then said, "Witchcraft was declared a crime, by human standards, in 1542. But witches have been around since the beginning, you know—not always in the same form, or doing the same type of Work, but they've been here." 

Crowley blinked, confused by Aziraphale's chosen opening lines. But he nodded; didn't question, and leaned slightly across the table. 

"Oh, when was it, exactly...?" Aziraphale murmured, concentrating for a moment on his cake. When he spoke again, the topic seemed entirely changed. "When the East-West Schism happened, the politics Upstairs went to Hell in a God-forsaken hand-basket, if you'll pardon the phrase. I figured that it would be best to just lie low down here. I rather liked Earth, by then, you know, and Heaven was in such an unpleasant tizzy over the whole thing. Wanted to blame all the corruption on your side, you know." He smiled, almost apologetic. "It wasn't. Humans will be humans, no matter how sanctified they might be. 

"Anyway, I didn't want anything to do with all that. That was around the time when I, ahh... started to _avoid_ making reports Upstairs. I still played at doing my job, of course, but... that was when I more or less stopped lying to _myself_ about any intentions I had. I started to look into... fall-back plans." 

"Fall-back plans," Crowley said flatly, and Aziraphale nodded. 

"Come the 1300s, they wanted me back up in Heaven." Aziraphale took a sip of his wine, and Crowley more hastily gulped at his. "Gabriel himself came right down into the little shop I'd made for myself—illuminated manuscripts were my trade, at the time—and told me that I was to report back Upstairs to receive a different assignment. He caught me while I was working on illustrations for a secular text, too—had to bluff my way out of that one, my _word_." Aziraphale seemed to soften. "What a fool, Gabriel... 

"Anyway, I got him to give me a few days to tie up my affairs on Earth, finish a few manuscripts, settle accounts, that sort of thing. Not a bad fellow, Gabriel, not really, just... so terribly _obedient_." Aziraphale sighed; contemplated a bit of cake on his fork. "So he gave me time, and I took my chance to disappear." 

"1327. That's when you disappeared." 

Aziraphale nodded. "There was a woman, the local bee-keep. Made the most delightful honey-cakes, let me tell you. Her shop was a few streets down from mine, and we did a good bit of business between us. Were friends, of a sort. Mistress Maudlin, was her name. She was also pagan, a practitioner of witchcraft. We would trade knowledge of such things, as well as books and sweets. I taught her a number of heavenly incantations, and she told me of her human craft. So, when Gabriel delivered his ultimatum, I went to her.” 

"I knew of Mistress Maudlin," Crowley said softly. "Lived near there for a while, myself. Do, do you mean to tell me that you were _that close_ all along?" 

Aziraphale gave a slight, regretful smile. "I could feel you nearby, as well. But I never imagined you were keeping an eye on me, specifically. I'm so sorry." 

Before Crowley could respond to that, Aziraphale forged ahead: "With Maudlin's help, I was able to escape from Heaven's eyes. The two of us constructed a spell to erase any trace of inhumanity about me. Neither Heaven nor Hell could detect me, that was the idea. And it worked. 

"Oh, the first few versions certainly weren't perfect," Aziraphale continued. "In the very beginning, I had to stay put in the very same room as the spell was set up. If we made it too strong, it would start to singe my feathers off. Nearly killed me, once, when we added in some burdock root to the mix. But we tweaked it, worked at it, until it was more functional. And, as Mistress Maudlin grew old, she introduced me to some of her Sisters. In those days, see, the witch-hunts hadn't begun in earnest—it was a clandestine thing, for sure, but there wasn't so much fear. 

"The witch-hunts were terrible, a terrible period of time." Aziraphale's gaze grew profoundly sad. "I lost so many good friends, anyone at all that I _considered_ a friend, and always they kept my spell going. Always. I tired—and often failed—to find ways to repay them. Eventually I found myself in the capable hands of England's last true witch: Agnus Nuter. When she foresaw her own terrible demise, she judged, in her wisdom, that my existence should become truly secret. She left instructions with her daughter, as to how to keep my spell going, but she never disclosed its purpose or my identity. I remained a close family friend, and provided them with what miracles I could by way of compensation, but they never knew the significance of the spell that Agnus beseeched them to sustain, after her death. They did it, though, faithfully, and for that I owe them my very existence." 

"So Anathema is her descendant, then?" Crowley guessed. "Agnus' descendant?" 

Aziraphale nodded. "Exactly. She's begun investigating exactly what the spell her great-great-great-great-great grandmother left behind is. She's the first one to do that, you know—quite the free-thinker, that one. I've been considering telling her, anyway. All the drama of witch-burning is long past, now. There isn't any great danger in her being known as a witch, although she slightly prefers the term 'occultist.' She and her Newton are both genuinely good people, too. I would trust them. Now I _have_ to trust them," he added, with a faint chuckle, "if I'm to explain _you_." 

"Hell sent me to investigate her," Crowley said, in a bit of a rush—honesty in return for honesty. "I was supposed to find out if she was helping out Heaven in any way, and eliminate her if she was." 

"Oh?" 

"They seemed to have some idea that she's got... aaah, how'd Beelzebub put it?... connections Upstairs." 

"She's got no such thing," Aziraphale huffed. "It's only the spell she keeps up for my sake, and I've got no more affiliations with Heaven these days than the average human." 

"Aah, well, about that..." Crowley stabbed absently at his forgotten slice of cake. "I might've told 'em that she did. I mean, 'cause of the books. On angelic things. Not exactly proof, but Hell doesn’t exactly _need_ a thing like proof. And besides, I figured the sooner things were wrapped up here, the sooner I could get back to doing my own thing. Have them off my back." He gave the plate an irritated shove towards the center of the table. 

Aziraphale pulled the plate over almost unthinkingly, beginning to pick at the mutilated dessert. “My... that might mean a bit of trouble...” 

“Sorry.” 

“You didn’t know,” Aziraphale replied, although he still looked moderately perturbed. “Couldn’t have known...” 

“Still. Sorry.” 

“So what’ve you been up to?” Aziraphale asked, with an abrupt tone of cheer. “Tell me, Dear—still every bit the wily old serpent I knew in Eden?” 

Crowley gave a noncommittal shrug. “Aah, not much of a demon these days, I’m afraid. Got too comfortable living as a human, you could say.” 

“As did I,” Aziraphale said, smiling. “It’s a lovely place, this Earth, isn’t it? And humanity, a wonderful thing.” 

“Yeah...” Crowley rested his chin on one palm, gazing at Aziraphale as he polished off the cake. “Lonely down here, though.” 

“Quite,” Aziraphale agreed, not seeming to realize the implications. But perhaps he did, and simply wished to leave those things unspoken for the time being. 

"My _car_!" Crowley shouted suddenly, and scrabbled out of the chair. Aziraphale made a questioning noise, but still moved to grab Crowley's arm when the demon's legs threatened to go out from under him. 

"Car?" 

"My poor _Bentley_...!" Crowley moaned, for the moment too preoccupied to notice Aziraphale's proximity. "It flipped!" 

"Well, let's go retrieve it, then," Aziraphale said easily, and lent Crowley support until he managed to walk on his own. Then he followed, a breathless trot, as the demon scrambled out the door and into the garden. Crowley's feet seemed to slip in the soft ground, but he didn't let it slow him. It only took a few moments of pushing through undergrowth and general searching to locate the unfortunate, inverted car, at which point he let out an inhuman moan of distress. 

"Oh the _humanity_!" he cried, pacing around the car in increasingly agitated circles. "You got me out of there and _this_ is what I've done to you. Oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...!" 

"Let's see what's to be done..." Aziraphale murmured, and moved to a nearby oak tree. He placed a hand against the bark and murmured, "If you please?" The ground creaked, a moment later, and one ancient root appeared beneath one side of the Bentley. 

Crowley gave a startled little hop to one side, then took up an under-the-breath chant of "Gently, gently, gently...!" as his car began to tip. It did come down with a rather violent clatter, but at least ended up back on its four wheels. 

"Oh dear..." Aziraphale murmured. Although his knowledge of cars was severely limited, even he knew that all _four_ wheels were supposed to be solidly fixed within their fenders. Crowley moved swiftly to the one that had been wrenched rather far out of alignment and pressed both his palms against the rubber. 

"C'mon, love, back in you go..." he breathed, and the wheel shifted under his touch; the twisted frame reshaped itself to accommodate it. Then he made his way around the hood, fixing dents and brutal gashes in the metal with caring hands. The shattered headlights restored themselves, and then he leaned in to mend the fractured windshield. 

"It means a lot to you?" Aziraphale guessed. 

"A lot, a lot..." Crowley mumbled, still more focused on his ministrations to the car. He leaned precariously into the front seat, tossing out bits of branches and leaf-mold. An exceptionally alarmed squirrel scrambled out past him, but Crowley paid it no mind. He all but slithered in through the window, then righted himself in the driver's seat and stretched to fix up dents in the roof. 

Aziraphale watched calmly, a slight smile on his face. "I'm glad. I was beginning to think there was _nothing_ you held dear in this world," he said quietly—too quiet for Crowley, inside the Bentley and thoroughly preoccupied, to catch. 

Eventually Crowley was satisfied. He got out; paced around the car once more, examining it, and eventually gave a brisk nod. 

"We'll take it back to the shop," Aziraphale said, and Crowley startled; looked up sharply, seeming to have forgotten the angel's presence. "I'm certain there will be accommodations waiting for it, now." 

Crowley's face creased in a profoundly confused expression, but he didn't raise any verbal question. Instead, he made a motion, and Aziraphale climbed obligingly into the front seat. 

The moment the car turned on, so too did the stereo. The cheerful melody was accompanied by Freddie's voice—soft, unobtrusive, observational: _Music is playing in the darkness and a lantern goes swinging by... Shadows flickering my heart's jittering... Just you and I..._

Aziraphale glanced over questioningly. "Your taste in music?" 

Crowley seemed hyper-focused on the non-existent road, even as he nodded; he didn't look over at his passenger, nor did he answer. 

_... We'll go walking in the moonlight, walking in the moonlight... Laughter ringing in the darkness, people drinking for days gone by... Time don't mean a thing when you're by my side, please stay awhile..._

When Crowley drove up the bookshop, it had mysteriously acquired a single-car garage attached to one side. Aziraphale gave a satisfied hum as the Bentley glided inside, fitting as though the accommodations were designed for it. Crowley turned off the engine, though he ran a fond hand along the dash before climbing out. 

"It'll be quite safe here," Aziraphale said, and then led the way through a new doorway back into the main building. "The shop moves around a bit, so this way your... Bentley, did you say? ... will move with it." 

"Aah... thanks," Crowley said, uncertain how else to respond. "Moves around?" 

"To make it harder to pinpoint," Aziraphale explained. "Oh, the occasional customer wanders in by accident, from time to time, but not often. Only Anathama and Newton can find it at will." 

Crowley nodded, then started violently when Aziraphale took his hands. They were covered in soil and grime and inky oil, as though he'd dug his car from its early grave and made each repair by hand. 

“Let’s get you into a nice bath, hmm?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley blinked at him. 

“Could just, yknow, miracle clean...” 

“That wouldn’t be nearly as nice. Besides that, it’ll relax you, Dear, I promise.” Aziraphale all but bundled him down a hallway; into a bathroom. The tub managed to look antique and luxurious at once, and Aziraphale went over to turn the water on. 

“It’s not...” Crowley began again, but was quickly realizing that ‘not necessary’ was absolutely no reason for the angel to not do any given thing. So he made his meandering way over as Aziraphale added something fizzy to the water. 

“Here, use this,” he said, pressing a silky bar of soap into Crowley’s hands. “You’ll smell simply _divine_. I’ll leave a robe hanging on the door.” Then he gave Crowley a quick peck on the cheek—much to the demon’s utter bewilderment—and whisked out before Crowley could react. 

Crowley stared at the door for some time, rusted gears in his head trying to turn and decidedly failing. Eventually he forced a shrug; pushed such things from his mind and stripped off his clothes. He hissed softly, stepping into the water, but then melted into it; his eyes rolled involuntarily as the heat enveloped him, and he sank down until only his head was above water. 

“Ooh... Angel might be onto something, here...” he mumbled, closing his eyes and feeling the tension leached out of his body by the warm water. Besides that, the manual removal of dirt and grime from his skin was oddly satisfying, at least once he’d roused himself enough to begin washing. He’d call it therapeutic, if he was in the right mood to assign it such a word. 

The soap smelled of rich white chocolate and succulent cherries. The water remained, miraculously, the perfect temperature.


End file.
